


my ever-beating heart

by thebriars



Series: drumfred ficlets [9]
Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: M/M, alfred and mina best bros forever, im allergic to happiness and cannot write anything thats not depressing, im sorry, sadness as usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 11:34:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebriars/pseuds/thebriars
Summary: (be still, my ever-beating heart. don't stop- just hold on.)in which alfred is more alone than he ever was. in which ice consumes him from the inside out despite the fires raging around him. in which he is haunted by the best thing to ever happen to him and destroyed by the worst and in which the past replays itself over and over in a cruel performance of joy and pain and love. in which light pokes through, as it tends to do.





	my ever-beating heart

**Author's Note:**

> title is from gold by joseph (amazing band pls go love them)
> 
> also, the tiniest of tw for suicidal thoughts. nothing big; just so you know. and, as usual, vague smut. it's all off-screen :p
> 
> not sure this counts as plot but oh well

_Certain types of happiness seemed to make Alfred rethink every other joy in his life, for how could they compare to the pure sunlight that filled his veins?_

 

_Formerly, his happiness had been books and the opera and beautiful moments with beautiful people. They faded before Edward, and Alfred was left with a sense of loss for who he had been before. His life had been so devoid of true, true joy. It would have been sad, had Edward not been so perfect and wonderful that Alfred was incapable of sadness._

 

_Edward looked dashing in a coat and top hat, hair impeccable and lofty expression a sure sign of his intelligence and importance. Despite his looks and position, Edward never seemed vain, and Alfred adored him for it._

 

_However, as their evening romp with the servants progressed and Edward became more and more disheveled, Alfred began to think that the lower classes had some splendid qualities, especially when it came to appearances. Coat long discarded and hair a mess, Edward looked young and spirited. Alfred wondered if his cheeks were flushed from the dancing or something else entirely._

 

_And then when they left the others behind in the woods for a moment of peace by the pond, Alfred truly believed that he had not felt happiness before. The feeling that rippled through him was a joy he had not know existed, a joy that made everything else pale._

 

_He took a swig from their shared flask, the low buzz of liquor making the glow of sunlight on the water shimmer with the brilliance of an angel. Edward looked like one, too, ringed in a golden halo of light. His eyes turned to the attractive burgundy of his favorite coat, lips and cheeks rosy. They way he was running a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame it was doing something to Alfred that made him swallow hard and clench his teeth._

 

_He said something offhand, trying to play off his fascination with the scenery as innocent observation, pausing beside Edward and hoping that his staring wasn’t obvious. Nevertheless, despite his hope for subtlety, Alfred glanced up._

 

_There was an undefinable look on Edward’s face, accented by his slightly agape mouth. It was as if he had come across a great discovery, or inherited a large sum of money. He was looking at Alfred as though he was a treasure, just waiting to be found._

 

_Edward hesitated, and then surged forward with intent clear in his eyes, and Alfred felt something rush to his heart and-_

 

“...lfred, Lord Alfred, we’ve arrived,” Miss Coke said, a gentle hand insistently shaking his arm. A sadness tinted her expression. Alfred bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

 

It seemed as though all color had seeped from the world, leaving a barren sky and a small group of black-clad mourners beneath it. Alfred allowed Miss Coke to lead him up the steps of the palace, closely followed by the Duchess, who was strangely silent.

 

Alfred’s mind was devoid of thought as Miss Coke settled him in an arm chair and Ernst handed him some whiskey. He took a shaky sip, aware that the vast majority of eyes in the room were focused on him. He glanced up, and they turned away. Alfred’s spins crawled with something unidentifiable. Fear? Anticipation?

 

Her Majesty shared a glance with the Prince, and they moved to depart, but not before she stopped to brush a comforting hand against Alfred’s shoulder.

 

The sudden urge to vomit washed over him, and Alfred excused himself shortly after the royal couple left.

 

If only he could run. Sprinting through Buckingham Palace was never a good idea, especially when the need to be left utterly alone crawled through Alfred’s skin like some horrible insect. Nevertheless, Alfred’s footsteps fell faster and heavier than his regular swagger, and he reached the gardens relatively quickly. It was a relief to leave behind oriental carpet for rough earth, and Alfred slowly climbed to a mad dash through the hedges, thoroughly undignified and freeing in a way nothing else was. The sensation of air whipping by him tore away a layer of grief for a moment, until Alfred reached the end of the path and dropped heavily into a stone bench, heaving with breathlessness and building tears.

 

God, it was a nightmare. It was as though the sun had faded to black and Alfred was left frozen on earth, the sadness of the darkness causing him to freeze faster than the lack of warmth. It grew from his heart, stretching further and further until it exploded into spindly arms that started it all over again, gradually consuming everything Alfred was and turning him to ice.

 

No matter how much he daydreamed, Edward was gone. Alfred had carried his coffin, for Christ’s sake. He had felt the weight of his lover on his shoulder and it had been nearly enough to fell him to the church aisle.

 

And Alfred could not truly mourn, a cruel punishment from the heavens, a final nail in his own coffin.

 

The stone was cold beneath his fingers.

 

•••

 

“You’re beautiful,” Alfred breathed, hands fisted in Edward’s billowy shirt. His insides tightened at the sight of Edward rumpled and halfway undressed.

 

Though they had seen each other bare before, this nudity would be different in every way but physical. To see Edward’s skin, free and flushed and perfect, in this new circumstance was a blessing Alfred never expected to have. He would finally be allowed to touch, to claim. It made him melt a little.

 

Edward smiled shyly, running a hand down Alfred’s back in a way that entirely contradicted his innocent expression. In fact, Alfred would have thought him unaware of his affect had it not been for the heaviness in Edward’s eyes. They seemed deeper and darker and thrill rushed through Alfred like a breeze.

 

“I dare say that it is you who is the beautiful one.” Edward’s fingers shifted to brush against the back of Alfred’s neck. He shivered, pressing his forehead into Edward’s deliriously prominent collarbone.

 

Alfred was officially losing his sanity. “False, Drummond. You are a god in your own right.”

 

“Call me Edward.”

 

Alfred hesitated, tasting the word on his tongue. His voice was breathy when he finally mastered it enough to produce coherent sound. _“Edward.”_

 

In a moment of unadulterated passion, Edward tore Alfred’s shirt over his head and flipped them neatly onto the bed. Alfred’s breath hitched as soft lips began to trail over his neck and down, down, down...

 

  * ••



 

Miss Coke found him some time later, cautiously peeking around the corner of the hedge before hurrying over to Alfred’s bench. A hand wrapped lightly around his own, another smoothing over his hair, and if Alfred squeezed his eyes tight enough he could imagine they were someone else’s.

 

Somewhere amidst his tears, Alfred had managed to slip from the bench onto the grass, curled tight against it. Miss Coke’s skirts brushed his back and he leaned into her legs, knowing full well that he was dangerously close to crossing the line of acceptability. Still, she ran her hand over his head and traced comforting circles into the back of his hand.

 

“Miss Coke?” he managed. “You are a saint.”

 

“Oh, Alfred, you must call me Wilhelmina.”

 

His heart tightened.

 

•••

 

It was later, back at his home after the servants had left for the night, that Alfred opened the box in his wardrobe. Carefully tucked beneath an old quilt at the back of the cabinet, it was invisible to any who did not go looking for it.

 

Alfred carefully pried the lid up, revealing crimson velvet casing and an ivory-handled revolver. It had been his coming-of-age gift, meant for protection in the busy streets of London and for whatever else a young man might please. Alfred had no idea what those pleasures might be, as he had only shot it once to check its functionality.

 

The temptation to load it was overwhelming, and Alfred fit his hand against the pale white to test its weight, reveling in the feeling of it in his palm. It was an easy way out, a cheat to avoid a life devoid of joy, and a shameful end to a shameful love affair.

 

Alfred longed for the grief that tore through his every nook and cranny to end, but it was selfish to end his life for himself when Edward had died for the country. Alfred felt dwarfed by his lover’s honor, which had always carried him through until it killed him.

 

His hands shook as he closed the box, tucking the revolver beneath the quilt and sat silently on the floor, at a loss for what to do.

 

•••

 

Their movements reached a crescendo and white flashed in Alfred’s eyes, blinding him for a moment. They hovered on the precipice before crashing down in a cacophony, landing heavily on the bed, side by side. Edward pulled Alfred close and the darkness enveloped them.

 

With a steady heartbeat beneath him, Alfred felt sleep begin to crawl into his head, but the underlying current of anxiety refused to leave him be. He curled his fingers against Edward’s skin, rather harder than he intended.

 

“Are you quite alright, Alfred?” Edward asked, raising his head to glance down in concern, and adoration rushed through Alfred. “You’re not hurt?”

 

“I am fine, but thank you.” He nestled deeper against Edward, reveling in the sensation of skin and heat.

 

“I’m afraid that won’t work on me, Al. I _know_ you.”

 

The concern in Edward’s voice, the crinkle between his brows, the tiny frown that crossed his lips... God, he was perfect.

 

Alfred gulped. “I am afraid. Should we be discovered, and...”

 

Edward suddenly shot straight up, rolling to hover over his lover, eyes dark. “I would never let that happen.”

 

“Edward, it’s not that simple. We cannot guarantee safety at all and I would die if I lost you.”

 

He nodded, leaning down to press his lips lightly to Alfred’s.

 

“Still. I will not endanger you.”

 

“It’s too late for that,” Alfred laughed breathily, the fear washing away as Edward pressed more insistently and the joy of a kiss swept them both away.

 

•••

 

Waking up alone was a torture like no other. Reaching into an empty bed, searching for warmth now cold- Alfred’s eyes nearly betrayed him again.

 

The patter of rain on the window pane was calming, rhythmic and familiar. It reminded Alfred of the storms that had swept off of the ocean back in Wales, rocking their house until Alfred was sure it would loose its hold on the hill and tumble to the waves below.

 

Despite the emptiness within, Alfred did indeed have duties to fulfill and a paycheck to earn, and he was not at the liberty to sulk in bed all day. The temptation was strong, though. Surely Victoria would overlook a missed day so soon after the death of a _dear friend_ like Edward. But grieving like that was out of turn for mere friends, and Alfred still refused to sully Edward’s name. Besides, he didn’t necessarily wish to loose his livelihood. The antics of his fellows at the palace were the only thing keeping him sane.

 

So, Alfred found himself waiting patiently beside Victoria’s desk while she talked with Peel, trying to avoid the hushed whispers that flirted through the court as he passed, probably due to the look in his eyes. He seemed like a man on the way to the gallows, resigned to his fate and numb.

 

Victoria and Peel came through the doors and pressed his lips to the back of her hand with a strange finality. Victoria watched him go with a certain sadness. Peel glanced at Alfred and then returned his gaze to the floor, setting his jaw. He looked exhausted, nearly guilty, and he didn’t quite meet Alfred’s eyes. God, even the Prime Minister pitied him.

 

“Good morning, Your Majesty. I trust all is well with Sir Robert?”

 

“Not quite, Lord Alfred.” Victoria tapped a stack of papers against her desk, straightening them effortlessly and coming through a drawer for a ribbon to bind them. Her voice was tired. It was as if the whole of London was under a spell, and the rain kept pattering. “I’m afraid that Sir Robert is to retire. The death of Mr. Drummond has shaken him profusely and he wishes to return to his family.”

 

Well, then. Edward would have been shocked by this turn of events, positively aghast that his passing was so monumental and that Peel wouldn’t hold onto the office he fought so hard to keep. Frankly, Alfred was surprised as well.

 

Alfred composed his thoughts. “I’m sad to hear that. And who will be his replacement?”

 

“That, Lord Alfred, is an excellent question.”

 

•••

 

It was calming to simply be with Edward. No importance to their conversation, no weight of foreign eyes, no expectations. Perhaps it was strange to wait up so late alone, but the rest had all retired after a particularly eventful day. Visiting delegations were always a hassle, especially when they were German. Leopold had succeeded in being as creepy as ever, and even the ever-stoic Edward had needed to duck out at a point to muffle his laughter at the pure hatred on Victoria’s face.

 

“Did you see the way she glared at his back? Good Lord, I thought I was going to rupture something from trying to keep it in!”

 

Halfway through his second glass of whiskey, Edward had finally dropped his politician facade and was turning rather rosy, either from the laughter or the alcohol. Alfred wasn’t faring much better, though. There was a low buzz in his fingers and other, less innocent parts as Edward tilted his head back and played absentmindedly with the soft curls at the base of his neck.

 

“Ah, the woes of diplomacy.”

 

“Indeed, Lord Alfred.” Edward sighed, perhaps slightly more drunk than Alfred thought he was. Nevertheless, neither rose to retire, held there in the parlor by some invisible need to be alone.

 

“Say, Mr. Drummond, have you had the chance to see _Nabucco_? Lady Emma went just the other night and said it was quite delightful.”

 

“I have heard good things, Lord Alfred, and have intentions to arrange tickets. Florence has spoken of her wish to see it.”

 

Alfred’s heart sunk. Of course. God, he hated that woman. He had no reason to besides her affiliation with a man to whom he had no claim, but the hot steam of jealousy rose within him and he couldn’t help but despise her.

 

Even despite his slight intoxication, Alfred kept his words in check. They were his ultimate weapon- should his mouth betray him, he would be lost. “You shall certainly enjoy it.”

 

Edward must have noticed the shift in Alfred’s mood, for he leaned forward slightly and set his whiskey down. “I’ve heard that the Adelphi theatre will be preforming a variation of _The Iliad_ this spring. Perhaps you would be interested?”

 

A smile broke across his face. “I would be delighted, Mr. Drummond.”

 

•••

 

Summer came and went in a blur. Victoria was clashing with Russell nearly on the daily and the hoard of children at her feet grew with the addition of Helena. Wilhelmina continued to a be a dear, but the coldness between Harriet and Ernst returned. Alfred was only thankful that the Queen was unable to return to Scotland. He doubted he could face the land again.

 

The warmth melted into brisk fall air and the gardens of Buckingham Palace sprung alive with vibrant reds and yellows. Alfred and Wilhelmina were married in a small ceremony, filled with a sad sort of tension. Harriet returned to her home and Ernst fled to Italy for exploration and a reprieve from Albert’s Albert-ness, as he put it. Alfred figured his reasoning was more along the lines of Harriet-related emotional turmoil, but that was beside the point.

 

Wilhelmina moved into Alfred’s house on Grosvenor Place and the pair settled into a pattern of domestic bliss, deciding quite quickly that children and child-making activities weren’t really an option for them. Alfred had insisted that Wilhelmina was free to find satisfaction elsewhere, but her seemingly endless array of angelic qualities prevented her from being even the slightest bit unfaithful. It made Alfred nervous, sure that he was wholly undeserving of such a woman, but Wilhelmina assured him that being friends who happened to be married worked excellently for her. Florence became a regular visitor at their home, and Alfred found her to be much less awful than he wished she would have been. It would be easier to justify his old jealousy for her had she not been thoroughly wonderful.

 

Nevertheless, the ache of Edward still echoed sharply through him. Alfred suddenly wondered if things could have worked well with Florence. Wilhelmina seemed rather smitten with her, and it began to play as a fantasy in his mind. A wild daydream- under the guise of marriage, he and Edward may have been just fine.

 

But that was a mere dream, silly and reckless and impossible.

 

Fall have way to a sporadic winter, flashing between bouts of heavy snow and unseasonable warm spells. Albert pouted about a ruined Christmas and Ernst came back to celebrate, filling the Palace with humorous brotherly spats. Alfred considered going home for the holidays, the spirit in London enough to make him miss the antics amongst his own siblings and the ever-multiplying crowd of nieces and nephews. But, the Duchess’s health was failing and Alfred didn’t feel like addressing Wilhelmina’s suspicious lack of pregnancy twenty times over, so they stayed at home and celebrated with the rest of the court.

 

Nevertheless, the festivities came to an end and the whole of Buckingham descended into chaos. Alfred himself was on a mad hunt to wrangle in the end-of-year accounts, his yearly reminder that he was not hired to languish about and play Chopin in the parlor.

 

After the new year came, things quoted down again, and the domesticity of his life before December returned. Wilhelmina had joined some social club and was busy with it most days, and Alfred was faced with the horrifying prospect of a year gone by without Edward.

 

The cold returned, growing inside him again and turning every happy occasion into a reminder of what Edward was stolen from. Or, rather, what was stolen from Edward. How he would have laughed at Victoria’s feisty children, at the face Alfred made when Victoria asked for beets to be served at Christmas, at the Duchess offhandedly suggesting that Ernst and Harriet marry...

 

It had been nearly a year since Edward had died. Nearly a year since that awful funeral, since Alfred had felt the eyes of his friends boring through him, since he’d fled to the gardens. Nearly a year since he’d touched that box in the back of his drawer, nearly a year since he tested the weight of the gun in his hand.

 

But, Alfred was faring better than he expected. Speaking of Edward was no longer torture, thinking of him was more of an ode to their adventures, and perhaps moving on wasn’t so impossible a concept.

 

It was a relief to hear his name, proof that he was not forgotten, and Alfred found the anniversary of that horrible day much better once it became remembrance instead of grief.

 

The black armband was snug around his arm, a permanent wardrobe addition and a silent homage to the greatest love of Alfred’s life. Wilhelmina’s hand rested just below it as they passed through the churchyard on the way back to their carriage, bypassing the remaining mounds of snow. Alfred glanced back at the headstone, lips pressed in a tight smile, and continued on his way.

**Author's Note:**

> i’m saying fuck off to both history and itv canon and running wild. it’s too much work to try and figure out how in the world they fit together and also creative libertyyyy. basically, the only vaguely accurate thing here is that alfred paget did indeed live on 42 grosvenor place. the more you know i guess. also i have no clue how alfred’s job works and i’m too horrible at economics to make sense of “managing the accounts” so i’m just freewheeling through it lol
> 
> also im sorry


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